


Punish the Stars

by Reneehart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Smut, Eventual tom riddle/hermione granger, F/M, Post-War, Soul Bond, hermione granger/ tom riddle, horcrux, minor ron bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-07 19:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10367520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneehart/pseuds/Reneehart
Summary: When Hermione Granger, an Unspeakable, is given the task of researching Lord Voldemort's horcruxes, she doesn't expect to be placed in any danger. But after a potion goes wrong and Tom Riddle's soul becomes bound to her own, she finds herself quite literally haunted by the former Dark Lord. One who is hell bent on coming back to power, with or without her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione studies Tom Riddle's horcruxes and unknowingly revives one.

Author's Note: I am Tomione Trash.

Discaimer: All properties are owned by JK Rowling, and I am receiving no monetary compensation for this work of fiction.

Chapter One: Of Horcruxes and Potions

Hermione Granger gazed at the objects before her with a pensive look on her face, nervously chewing her lip. Concealed behind the thick, warded glass sat all five of Lord Voldemort's horcruxes, destroyed and shattered. Yet, she could still feel them she thought, the sinister magic just beyond the glass and whispering to her. Subconsciously, she raised a hand to her collar bone, feeling her skin where once sat the locket, her heart heavy with the memory of it. 

“Is this...suitable to you, Miss Granger?” Adesa Gabler asked. The older witch looked down at Hermione from behind her horn-rimmed glasses, her voice a thick Germanic accent.

Hermione swallowed hard, hoping she didn't look as uneasy as she felt. “Yes, I think it will be alright,” she said, attempting a wavering smile as she looked back up to her new boss, placing a hand over the glass and flinching when she felt the cold surface.

Adesa looked relieved. “Thank goodness. No one else wanted to study them, you see. I think they're a little bit frightened of them, especially so soon after the war,” she said, sighing as she pushed some loose strands of gray hair behind her ear. 

“That's silly. They're inactive, and the horcrux has been destroyed. I only hope there will be at least enough magic in them for me to write up a proper report for you,” Hermione said, following as her boss left the case and walked over to a messy desk, books and parchment strewn over it. The war had ended several months ago, and the world had just begun to push forward from where it stood still in time, grieving and rebuilding cast into the background as life did as it often does and kept moving. There had been months spent in mourning, in volunteering to raise the walls of Hogwarts back from where they fell. But there was a time limit on everything, a statute of limitations to how long someone could stand still in the face of tragedy, and everyone was forced to resume their lives once more, with heavier hearts and somber faces.

Hermione, Ron and Harry had then had the world handed to them, regaled as heroes and honored as such. They were already written into history books, had chocolate frogs dedicated to them, and were offered nearly any job they wanted. Ron and Harry had immediately accepted jobs in the Auror Department of the Ministry, while Hermione had taken a position with the Unspeakables, eager to dedicate her days to learning all she could. To unfolding magic before her eyes in ways no one had previously done before, creating knowledge just as quickly as she could consume it.

“Well, just because they're inactive does not mean that they aren't dangerous,” Adesa confessed, rubbing the back of her neck as Hermione narrowed her eyes at her. Chewing her lip nervously, the older witch sighed. “I hope this doesn't deter you away from working with them, as our understanding on horcruxes is incredibly limited and we look forward to this opportunity to learn more. But I have done a general overview of them and...”

Hermione rose a brow. “Yes..?”

“You can't destroy a soul, Hermione. You can destroy a body, you can steal a soul, and you can destroy a soul receptacle,” Adesa started, waving her hand in the direction of the horcruxes behind them as if in example. “But you can't destroy a soul.”

“So you mean parts of his soul are still...in there?” she asked, turning around and eyeing the seemingly innocent objects with a new consideration, her brown eyes wide. She suddenly felt as though she were being watched, as if Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort and all the other fragmented parts of him were observing her from where they were confined. Trapped, in the diadem, the goblet, beckoning her to them in the hopes to be free. She pulled her robes closer to her, feeling as if the air grew several degrees colder.

“I wouldn't worry about it too much!” Adesa hastily added, drawing Hermione's attention back to her stretched smile. “There is no magic attached to them anymore. Think of it like this: The objects represent a room, and when You-Know-Who turned them into horcruxes, he added a door into that room, and then trapped his soul into that room until he needed them. But when they were destroyed- by you, Potter and the others- the door was removed. And there's no way to put it back.”

She nodded, unable to keep her eyes away from the horcruxes now, knowing that they were indeed alive, if not barely, with the soul of a dead man. A chill went through her. “So, does that mean that when someone creates a horcrux, their soul will never be restored, even in death?” she asked. She supposed that, if that were the case, then perhaps Tom Riddle did succeed in his attempt to conquer Death. He would spend eternity trapped between the planes, not whole enough for Heaven or Hell, for life or death. He would not die, but he would not live. And that was one of the more horrifying fates she had ever imagined.

Adesa grinned, shuffling everything atop the desk into messy, contained piles, clearing off a workable surface. “Those are the questions we hope you can answer for us.” She stepped back then, making a broad gesture to the room they stood in- a cluttered and suffocating library with more books than it could hold, objects littered randomly about that Hermione recognized as being tools of exploring Dark Magic. “You will have this entire room at your disposal for your studies, as well as the larger library on Floor Y, and the offices on Floors R and X. If you feel these are not adequate tools, speak with me and I will do everything I can to provide you with what you need.”

With a firm nod, Adesa made her way over to the small door, expertly hidden between two over-sized bookshelves and calendars and parchments taped to the wood of it. Her hand on the doorknob, she turned to Hermione with a serious expression on her face as she added soberly, “And remember the oath you signed when you accepted this job. Your work is private, and isn't to be shared with anyone but myself when you are ready to report your findings. Make use of your concealing charms, and know that there will be severe repercussions should you fail to adequately ward your studies. Understood?”

“Yes.”

With that, she nodded. “Thank you, if not for you no one would study these, and we would never truly know how horcruxes work. Good Luck, Miss Granger.” And with that, she left, closing the door behind her with a firm click. Hermione could feel the automatic wards take over the room, barring entrance to prying eyes, and she was alone.

Looking to the horcruxes once more with reserved interest, her brows knitted, she thought, 'Well, not entirely.'

-xXx-

'I wonder,' Hermione thought idly as she pulled the tattered journal towards her, her hand running along the stiff and soiled pages of the diary. Dried ink had hardened it, and she had to dig her nails into the pages and pry them apart forcibly, some of them ripping with the action, in order to separate them. When she finally found a page that was mostly clean- towards the back and with only a a small tear in it from the basilisk fang- she smoothed the spine of the book out before her and grabbed a quill.

Twirling it in between her fingers for a second, breathing deeply as she steeled her resolve and her suddenly pounding heart, she said aloud to the empty room, “The horcrux is inactive. Even if it works, he can't possess me.” The affirmation hanging in the air, she dipped the quill into the ink pot and began to write on the page.

'Hello? Tom Riddle?'

She sat back, waiting with baited breath as her eyes remained focused on the page. She exhaled, rather sharply, when the ink began to dissolve, vanishing into the crisp page of the journal. After several seconds, another message appeared in its place, the handwriting different from her own. It was neater, and slanted somewhat heavily to the side with sharp and spindly peaks and valleys.

'Hello, Hermione Granger.'

Sucking in her lower lip, she slammed the journal shut, her hand remaining on the leather cover as though it would burst open of its own accord. Her heart pounded hard in her chest, thumping against her rib cage and threatening to break free. She was trembling, suddenly terrifyingly aware that Tom Riddle still resided within the pages of the journal, and he knew who she was.

She stood from the desk, walking away from it and the diary as she ran a hand through her wild curls, catching her fingers in several knots as she did so. “The horcrux is inactive, and even though it worked, he can't possess me,” she said once more, her voice wavering over the words. Somehow, they had less weight to them, dissipating from the room as soon as she said them. 

Eyeing the diary from across the room, she wondered what exactly Tom Riddle could see, what he was aware of. A chill ran through her, as though she had dunked her head into the Great Lake, and she looked around the room, a part of her silly enough to think that the Slytherin boy might be standing in the corner, shrouded in the shadows.

He wasn't though, she knew, letting out a breath of relief. Because he was forever entombed into the diary, the destroyed and poisoned pages of it his final resting place.

-xXx-

She squealed, quite loudly, from where she sat in the library, earning herself several pointed glares and one rudely whispered 'shhh!'. But she paid no mind, ignoring them as she stormed through with the book still raised in front of her face, her nose practically buried into the spine of it. The tome was torn and tattered and nearly in pieces, certain pages slipping from the binding of it and the silver lettering on the cover was peeling away. The ink was smeared and smudged, and some spaces were unreadable, and yet she had found something, something she could use.

On the page that she was currently reading, even as she ran through the corridors of the lower levels to the Ministry of Magic, was a large header. 

'Preparing a Draught of Dark Magic Revelation: How to use elixirs to reveal any spells or affects of an unseemly nature that might have been placed on an object, as well as to expel any curses that may afflict it.'

Her footsteps echoed off the floors in the empty space as she rounded the corner, descending down a flight of stairs to where the offices of the personal Potions Masters the Ministry kept on hand were working. Just a brief overview told her that the potion was far more complex than she had the talent or the time to brew, and she would need the expertise of another. She certainly didn't want to mess this up, as this could be the answer to learning the secrets of Voldemort's horcruxes.

'Then I can move on to another task. Something more pleasant that doesn't deal with handling the trapped souls of a megalomaniac serial killer,' she thought in disdain, rapping her small fist sharply on a door to the first office she saw.

-xXx-

She ignored the diary for several weeks after her first time writing in it, instead focusing her studies on the other horcruxes, moving onto the goblet while she waited for her potion to be completed. The resurrection stone had been lost when Harry dropped it in the forest, pushed deep into the soft earth. She was informed that efforts were being made to retrieve it, but there had been no such luck as of yet, and so only the clumsy setting of the ring remained, the band uneven and pushed too far in on one side. She could not study it as such, and had decided to bypass it, as well as the locket, feeling rather uneasy about it after her time camping through the Forest of Dean with it. So she settled on the goblet next, and had it resting on her lap, the tip of her wand balanced on the polished surface.

Silver light wrapped around the goblet, sparking in response as it seemed to deflect off it. She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

Three weeks, and nothing worked. She had nothing to report on, nothing to deliver. Every spell and charm accomplished nothing, and the only horcrux that responded to any stimulation was the diary, which had sat locked within the warded case since she first put her quill to it.

Standing from her seat, she placed the goblet down on the desk and began pacing around the room, absentmindedly pulling on her curls. Three weeks, and she had discovered nothing new about this piece of dark magic, nothing beyond what Adesa had told her when she was assigned the task. She was already halfway through her deadline, and nothing.

Pausing in her lap around the cramped office, she looked back to the case, her eyes landing on the diary from where it lay on the satin lining. The bulge from where the fang pierced through puckering up from the leather binding. She bit her lip as she folded her arms across her chest, her brown eyes staring at the diary accusingly. He seemed to beckon her, whispering for her to move closer, to caress through the pages once more. Raising her hand to her mouth, she chewed idly on her thumb.

The diary was the only horcrux that would respond to anything at the moment. Every spell and charm she had used hitherto had no effect on the other ones, and she was at a loss.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she took several long strides across the room and towards the case, pulling the diary out from within it. Gripping tight onto it and ignoring the rush of adrenaline that came over her, she sat back down at her desk, opening the journal back to the page she had written on before. It was empty.

Dipping her quill into the inkwell, she hovered it over the page for only a second before she began to write, her heart in her throat. 

'How do you know who I am? Can you see me?'

She pulled her arm back, worrying her lip between her teeth, as she watched the words melt away, absorbing into page. It didn't take long for him to respond, the writing the same as before.

'Why do you wish to know?'

She groaned, rolling her eyes in annoyance. He would not make this easy on her, she knew, but at this point, he was all she had. 

'One does not often have books know them by name.'

The words lingered for only a moment before disappearing into the parchment, replaced with Riddle's own neat scrawl.

'This isn't just a book, Miss Granger.'

She hesitated before adding her next words.

'No, it isn't. It's a horcrux.'

'It was a horcrux. Now it's just a prison.'

'And does this prison have windows? How can you see me?'

It took some time for him to respond, her words had long since dissolved into the parchment, and for a moment she thought he might not write back, that he had grown tired of her questions. But just as she sighed and was ready to close it shut, his neat and spirally handwriting filled the page.

'If you'd like, I can show you, Miss Granger.'

She knew that he had no power over her, that the horcrux had been destroyed and any magic he might have held as one had been vanished with it. But it was unnerving, and though he was just taunting her, she snapped the book close, shaking her head. “That's enough of that,” she said to the empty- yes, it was empty!- room before rising from her chair and dropping the diary in the case with the other horcruxes. She closed the glass lid down on it and turned away, deciding now would be an excellent time to break for lunch.

-xXx-

Two more weeks went by, and though she did not make anymore contact with Tom Riddle, she did try various spells on the diary. Her research progressed- slowly, but it did progress, and she had a least some things to report to Adesa when the time would come.

Stifling a yawn with her hand, she reached across the desk to to the potion vial sitting on the corner of it, examining the pale green liquid as it sloshed along the sides of it. The Potion Master who had brewed it for her had brought it to her when she was on her break, had given her the instructions to administer it effectively, as well as what should happen if it worked.

Lowering it into her palm, she uncorked it and transfigured the cork top into a dropper, dipping it into the vial and filling the tube with some of the elixir. Bringing it over to the diary, she carefully emptied some of it onto the crevice of the puncture mark- one, two, three drops slipping into the hole and sizzling with the contact, a small string of smoke rising from it as it seared through the leather like acid.

She waited for five minutes for something to happen, but nothing did, the sound of burning eventually fading as the potion dried. She sighed in frustration as she pulled her journal with her scrawled notes on it closer to her and added some more, yawning wide. She was exhausted, having barely gotten any sleep the past several nights. Her and Ron had been constantly going at it, fighting with the other more frequently than they did get along. Perhaps she could lie down, just for moment. She wasn't getting anywhere anyway, how much difference would it make if she toiled away half an hour?

Rising from her desk, she slipped the diary back into the case and settled herself down on the couch after moving the books that had been on the cushions to a nearby table. She was asleep within seconds, her soft snores filling the room as the diary hummed from where it sat in the case she had forgotten to close.

-xXx-

He was alive, for the first time in an eternity he was alive. His hands tingled with the sensation of pins and needles, feeling ebbing away the numbness he had long since grown accustomed to. His head was fuzzy and heavy, his neck felt too weak to support the sudden weight of it. He had been so used to nothing- to feeling nothing, to being nothing, to existing in nothing. He had forgotten what it was like to have clothes against your skin, strands of hair in front of your face. The simple sensations that are ignored do to how often they occur were all at once new and oh so familiar to him. His heart as it pressed against his chest, his blood thrumming through his veins. 

He did not know exactly how it came to be this way- from nothing to something, from locked away in shadows to suddenly bathed in light, but he was grateful to whatever came along to rescue him from the darkness. To the room he suddenly found himself standing in, the cramped and cluttered room without any windows but still filled with more warmth and light than he had known. The warmth! He had forgotten that too, the feeling of being frozen and chilled so that your skin was freckled with goosebumps. And to feel so hot that a thick layer of sweat would coat your brow, and the smallest article of clothing felt suffocating. 

He felt so alive, so marvelously human- a feeling he did not think he would cherish but oh how he did! He would never underestimate this, this feeling of being such a limited, and mortal human. Because he was alive!

Tom Riddle pressed a hand to his chest, gently caressing the soft fabric of the wool jumper, and sighed in contentedness as he felt his heart pulse below his splayed fingers. His chest rose with each inhalation, and fell with each exhalation, and his nostrils flared. It was overwhelming, to have existed in sensory deprivation for so long, to suddenly be filled with it, engulfed in the world he had left beyond.

Slowly, when his heartbeat began to settle, he allowed himself to look around, to study the room he had gloriously materialized in. There was a desk in the center of it, though it was less of a desk and more of shelf. There were various books and parchments littering the surface, and only a small square directly in front of the chair that was clear. There was a half empty vial of a green potion among the mess, and some quills, but other than that, nothing of real interest. 

Walking pass, he turned to his side at the soft sound of breathing. A young woman was sleeping on the couch shoved between two bookshelves- there were more bookshelves than walls in this room- and her long brown hair spilled over the side of the sofa in messy, frizzy curls. She was pretty, with pale skin that glowed in the candlelight, and a dusting of freckles over her nose and the top of her cheeks. This must be her, the one and only witch he had spoken to in a decade, since his diary had fallen into the hands of Ginny Weasley, and then Harry Potter. This was Hermione Granger. 

He smiled down at her, his cheeks feeling unnaturally stiff as they pulled taut with it. Where there was a witch, there was a wand.

Being ever so careful to not disturb her, knowing the longer she slept the better, he began shuffling around her, reaching out with gentle hands. Long, tapered fingers grazed over her sleeping form, searching for any pocket she may keep a wand in. He finally found it, tucked into her back pocket with the handle poking out.

Of all the sensations he felt recently, that was the best. To wrap his fingers around the hilt of a wand, to feel the core of it tap into his own magic, even if it did resist a little to him. He was not its master, and it seemed to sense this, vibrating in his palm in protest. But it would obey him nonetheless, least long enough for it to do what he required of it.

He was startled from his thoughts by the sound of a loud gasp, of springs creaking loudly as weight shifted. Looking up from the wand in his hand, he met the wide and frightened eyes of Hermione Granger, a honey-colored brown with flecks of gold. Her mouth was slacked open, and he could see her nostrils flare as she attempted to control her breathing, to not look quite as afraid as he was certain she felt.

“Who are you? What are you doing with my wand? This is a private office,” she said, all of it in one rushed voice so the words sounded strung together. She was standing now, moving closer to him with her chin raised and her hands balled into fists at her side. Her hair seemed to spark with her rage, her mortification at having been walked in on so rudely, and he could feel the magic coming from her, felt the wand in his hand fight against him and yearn to be with its rightful owner. Instead, he trained it on her, the tip of it resting just above her collarbone, where the dip of it left a soft square of skin.

“You don't remember me, Miss Granger? You seemed to know who I was when you were writing to me in my diary,” he said, his voice low and threatening. He could see the exact moment when realization snapped into her, when her eyes widened even more and her slim eyebrows rose to her hairline. 

She shook her head, the curls swaying around her. “No. That's impossible, the horcrux was destroyed!” she said, her voice wavering over the words, betraying her confidence. He did not know who she thought she was convincing, him or herself, but she looked around her, bewildered, before he eyes settled on something behind him.

And then she dove, agile and quick with reflexes he would not admit to being impressed by, and she grabbed hold of one of the many candelabras around the space. Her hand gripped tight around the tarnished brass base of it, and then rose it high above her head, bringing it back down in one quick movement.

But Tom sidestepped away from her, chuckling tauntingly as he never once moved the wand from its fixated point on her. “Brightest witch of her age and doesn't even use wandless magic? Are you a witch or not?” he jeered at her, his upper lip rising in a snarl. Before she could react, he yelled out, his voice booming in the room, “AVADA KEDAVRA!”

-xXx-

Author's Note: Follow me on Tumblr for answers to questions, requests, and sneak peeks to various works of mine. I hope you all enjoyed this.


	2. Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione realizes there has been a terrible mistake

Chapter Two: Shadow

Hermione did not know what it was that woke her exactly, whether it was the hands that roamed lightly over her, or the call from her wand as she felt her magic respond to its absence. But she awoke suddenly and with a clarity uncommon after sleeping, snapping upward into a sitting position as she realized she was not alone. There was a man standing right in front of her, a handsome man whom she had never seen before but immediately reminded her of fear and sin. 

His hair was neatly pushed back, dark and tamed curls swooping over his brow, and his skin was startlingly fair against it. His face was perfect in its symmetry, and she fancied he looked more like a Greek sculpture than a real being, with a long and tapered Roman nose, and high cheek bones above his strong jaw. His eyes were a dark shade of blue, appearing black in the shadows and had a piercing quality to them, one that instantly made her uncomfortable, her heart quicken its pace. She could see a darkness beneath them, lurking within the cold gaze, a hardness to his rigid brow.

“Who are you? What are you doing with my wand? This is a private office,” she said, hurriedly, her eyes darting from his face to the slim and delicate wand- her wand!- in his long fingers and back to his face again. She had no idea who he was, or how he could have even gotten into the heavily warded room. Had she forgotten to secure it in her exhaustion? Surely she would not make such an oversight.

All of a sudden he had the wand pointed on her, the tip hovering just over her collar bone, and her spine straightened to the threat before her. She had never felt so helpless, her fingers twitching with the need and the reflex to curl around her wand protectively. 

“You don't remember me, Miss Granger? You seemed to know who I was when you were writing to me in my diary,” he spoke, his voice a rich baritone that wrapped around her like velvet. But the tremor that shook from her was not from the pleasing sound of it, but from the sudden and terrible realization, her eyes flickering to the case where the horcuxes sat, the lid propped open. Could this be sixteen year old Tom Riddle, the one who was trapped within the pages of the ruined diary she had been tirelessly pouring her magic and research into? 

She shook her head. “No. That's impossible, the horcrux was destroyed!” she said, firmly but louder than she had intended. The vessel containing his soul had been thoroughly ruined, the door removed so to speak. She even had the fang pulled from the basilisk's mouth set upon on of the shelves for studying purposes. But no matter how much she tried to assure herself, refute the absurdity of it, a part of her knew beyond any doubt that this man was in fact Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort. So little was really known about horcruxes, could it be possible that something she had done had altered the magic within it, had allowed him to escape?

She did not give herself time to think, her eyes falling directly behind Riddle to the candelabra perched on her desk. Pushing herself off the couch quickly, she reached for it- the thick and half melted candles falling to the floor with a thud as she held it above her and brought it down in one swoop.

He was too fast, however, and moved away from the impeding blow without once letting the wand fall from his target. He was laughing then, his eyes glowing in a way that only made them appear darker as he said, “Brightest witch of her age and doesn't even use wandless magic? Are you a witch or not?”

And then he was yelling out those words, the Unforgivable Curse, and she shrunk into herself, falling to her feet as if he might somehow miss her if he did so. She told herself to close her eyes, skew them tight together so as to not see the tell-tale green light that would bring about her death, but instead she widened them, unable to abate her morbid curiosity.

But there was no bright light, no explosion of magic. The wand emitted pale green sparks, sputtering them out pathetically, before settling once more in Riddle's hand. His jaw clenched as he looked down at the still wand, eyes growing imperceptibly larger. His lips twitching, he tried it once more, enunciating the words clear and slow.

Still, nothing happened with the exception of the sparks falling from the tip of the wand, and Hermione took the opportunity to move, running to the glass case that held the horcruxes. If destroying the diary once had vanquished Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, surely a second time would have the same effect. Pulling the slim book out, she darted to where she knew the basilisk fang was kept for research, in the second drawer of her desk. 

“What are you doing, witch? Why won't your wand respond to me?” he hissed, his words filling the small space and she felt the hairs on her arm stand on end. Just like that, his voice had gone from warm and silken to high-pitched, cold. From Tom Riddle, to Lord Voldemort.

Finding the smooth curve of the fang, she pulled it out from the drawer just as Riddle rounded on her, his lips pinched together so that they were turning white. He looked from the ivory colored tooth in her hand to the diary laid out on the floor, his nostrils flaring.

“You filthy mudblood!” he roared, throwing himself towards her with his hands held out as if to wrap them around her neck. Without hesitation, she brought the fang down, plunging it into the soft leather cover of the journal. It sunk in, dull from having already been used to destroy the horcrux within Hufflepuff's cup, and pierced into the first few pages of it. 

But Riddle was still there, and seemed to be unfazed by her assault on the book as he paused for only a second, his eyes softening somewhat and he sighed. Then he was on top of her, knocking her down to the floor where she huffed out a sharp breath of air. His knees pinched her sides sharply as his fingers wrapped around her throat, his touch cold as ice to her fevered skin. Her own hands came up, clawing frantically at his fingers as she gasped out, trying to pull them away from her. She couldn't breathe, her windpipe obstructed by his tight hold, and she opened her mouth in a hungry attempt to get air. But none would come, and she could feel herself become lightheaded, could see her vision become speckled as her eyes rolled in her head.

Pulling her leg up, she slipped her knee in between his own, pushing it sharply into the apex of his thighs with as much strength as she possessed.

He groaned in pain, shuffling away from her as he settled into a crouching position. She rolled over then, disentangling herself from his legs and running towards the door of the office. She could hear him grumbling behind her, hear him threaten her as he made to follow her, but she paid him no mind, exiting into the corridor and flying through it. Her heels clicked loudly on the stone floors, the sound reverberating of the walls and wrapping around her as her breath turned into pants, magic sizzling desperately as Riddle once more attempted to curse her with her own wand, the echo of his own own footsteps suspiciously absent.

Everything seemed to slow around her, her pulse quickening to a point that she could feel it beneath the skin, could hear the throb of it in her head. Her arms pumped forward and back, in time with each step, and stray locks of curls that fell from her plait whipped into her field of vision, slow and purposeful. Yet her mind was moving at a lightning pace, her thoughts whirring around faster than she could examine them.

What could she have done that would allow Riddle to escape his tomb, and why couldn't she send him back after striking the diary? Not only was it ineffective, but it hardly seemed to bother him, a slight sigh of relief the only indication that he had even known what she was doing. Could it be that she truly did in fact bring the Dark Lord back to life, had tampered with something unknowingly that would allow him to rise to power once more? And why couldn't he use her wand? He was, much to her discontent, one of the most powerful wizards to have ever lived- surely he could command any wand of his choosing even if it did fight back?

She had no more time to ponder this however, as she turned a corner and ran hard into something decidedly solid, though soft. It was her chin that collided with the obstacle first, and her head snapped back as her feet slipped from under her. The only thing that stopped her from falling flat on her bum was the arm that wrapped around her waist, hoisting her up and gripping onto her tightly.

“Hermione? Are you alright? You'd think the devil was at your heels with the way you were running,” the familiar voice said to her, and she immediately recognized it as Ron's. 

Her shoulders slumped in relief as she grabbed onto his upper arms with a grip that made him flinch. He knitted his brow at her behavior, but grinned nonetheless. “I came down here to see why you missed joining me for lunch, but you were probably on your way to meet me. That's why you were running, right?” he said and she frowned, shaking her head as she looked behind her. Riddle had made his way around the corner now, and was approaching the two with a cautious look on his face, his lips parted somewhat. She turned back to look at Ron, who seemed none the wiser to the danger just steps away. 

“That's not-” she started, only to be cut off when Ron looked down the hallway, his lips spreading into a grin.

“Is your office empty? I know you're not supposed to have quests or anything, but I won't-”

“Ronald!” she shouted, her voice high and strained. It resounded around them, alarming Ron as he suddenly snapped his mouth shut, his blue eyes wide. Raising his hands out in front of them, his palms splayed out in her direction, he shifted his eyes around in obvious confusion.

“What's gotten into you, 'Mione?” 

She curled her lip in frustration as she began pulling away from him. “Ronald! It's him! Do something- he's got my wand!” she shrieked, gesturing behind her to where Riddle stood, an indiscernible expression in place. Ron looked down the hall and back to her, his eyes clouded over with concern.

“Hermione...who? No one's there,” he said softly, his eyes flicking between her and where she knew Riddle was standing, taking in the scene with barely concealed interest. She could see him swallow, his Adam's apple shift with the motion.

Turning her eyes back to Ron, she said, “We're alone...just us in the hallway?”

“Yes...? Maybe you should head home. Get some rest,” he suggested, pressing his clammy hands against her forehead. She shirked away from it, suddenly dizzy as she let her gaze stray to Riddle once more. 

'He doesn't have a shadow,' she noted, realizing that the harsh and bright light thrown around from the torches on the wall should in fact cast long and dark shadows around him. But he had none, nor did he have any audible footsteps that echoed like hers had.

She stepped away from Ron, shaking her head. “No...no I-I'm working on a big...I can't. I have a lot of research to do,” she finally said, her voice distant and airy as she finally pulled her eyes away from Riddle's looming form. She did not like the idea of turning her back to him, but so far he had been unable to perform any magic on her, and she considered herself safe enough.

Ron frowned. “Hermione, you can't work like this all the time. I know you love what you do, but you'll get sick if you don't slow down. Remember last time-” he started, and it wasn't until the words had left his mouth that he realized it had been the wrong thing to say.

Glowering at him, she scoffed. “Yes, Ronald, believe it or not I do remember things just as well as you do! And there is nothing wrong with my work ethic- perhaps you should take a moment to review yours however. Harry told me that you've been late four times in the past month as it is, and I will not have you criticize the way I approach my career because it exceeds your level of enthusiasm,” she hissed. She did not intend to be so cruel to him, and in fact began to regret it almost immediately after she had spoken. But she was brash and quick to temper, traits that she knew she had but could not help, and she began to wince when hurt flashed across his face before being replaced with anger. 

“Well, so be it from me then to keep you away any longer,” he sneered, promptly turning and walking in the direction he had come from. Leaving her alone with Riddle.

Just then, cold fingers settled on her shoulder, and she jumped, pulling away from him and pressing her back against the wall, her lips pursed.

“I don't know what's going on anymore than you do, but whatever you did to my diary caused this,” he spoke, gesturing to himself and then down the hall, as if to indicate Ron's ignorance. “You and I will return to your office and try to figure out what you could have done and how to resolve it.”

“Give me my wand,” she said, her voice surprisingly low and threatening despite the slight tremor to it.

He laughed, tossing it to her before he twisted to walk back to her office. “Keep it, it doesn't work for me anyway,” he said. Hesitating only slightly, she followed him, not once loosening the grip on her wand.

-xXx-

“This is the potion you used?” Riddle asked, pointing a long index finger to the small vial sitting on top the desk.

She nodded. “The book that had it is-” she started, pausing mid sentence as he went to grab the bottle and lift it up, only to have his hand move through it, like vapor. She raised a brow, watching as he tried once more to grab it, the bottle remaining in place as his fingers faded over it. Experimentally, he reached out for the book she had mentioned, pressing his fingers against the cover. They remained solid, the tips flattening against the surface, until he tried to open it and they again turned opaque and unable to grasp hold of anything.

“I can touch things, but I can't pick them up,” he stated. Then, looking at her with renewed interest, he added, “Except your wand. But I can't perform magic with it.”

“Can you do wandless?” she asked. In response, he flourished his hand in the direction of the same book he had tried to open. She could feel the room ignite with magic, the heat of it against her face, and yet there had been no effect on anything. The book still sat, undisturbed, and Riddle pinched his lips in barely tamed fury. 

“What did you do to me?” he said, his voice positively acidic with anger and hate. He was moving towards her then, bounding the short distance between them so quickly that before she knew it he was only inches away from her, her back flat against the door and his elbows pressed to it on either side of her head. He looked at her for a moment, his calculating blue eyes perusing her face so that she squirmed in discomfort. His gaze was terrifying and unnerving, and she could easily see how he could make others fall to their knees before him with it. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now- I didn't seem to have a problem choking you earlier,” he said, moving one hand away from beside her head to brush his knuckles along her throat.

She gasped at the touch, jerking away from him and holding her wand up, aiming it pointedly at his chest. “Don't touch me!” 

He did not take her threat seriously, instead laughing as he said, “Yes, let's try that now. I'm curious to see if spells can hit me or if they'll pass right through me as well.”

She bit her lip, realizing that it was indeed a possibility. But still, she readied her wand, thinking of the first hex that came to mind. “Impedimenta!” she shouted. The turquoise light burst from her wand, jetting forward rapidly and hitting Riddle in the center of his chest, passing though him as though he were not there and clashing into the books behind him. A loud crash sounded as the shelf broke from the impact, heavy tomes falling to the floor and pages fluttering through the air. 

“Curiouser and curiouser,” he muttered, turning to look behind him at the mess her spell had created. 

She was shaking her head, running a hand through her hair as she moved towards her desk and opened the book, shifting through the pages to find the potion. “This doesn't make sense. The horcrux was destroyed and there's no way to fix it once that's happened. Least none that I know of,” she said, more to herself than to Riddle as she groaned. There really was so little known about them, the dark magic considered to be the greatest form of taboo that even the more advanced Dark Arts practitioners turned their nose up at it. The process to create one was nauseating, and difficult. Very few horcruxes were ever reported, and she had messed up her opportunity to learn from them. For all she knew, there could be a way to make them active once more.

“Here's the potion I used,” she said, finding the page and settling the book down so that he could see it as well. His eyes skimmed through the page, his bottom lip between his teeth as he read through it all. After he had finished, he pulled back, a look of disdain on his face.

“This potion has never been tested on horcruxes, inactive or otherwise. You'll have to find someone who has knowledge about horcruxes, or at least about this potion. I certainly can't do it,” he said, a darkness filling his eyes. He clearly did not like relinquishing control or having to rely on others. Still, she wanted just as badly to rid herself of him as he did her, she nodded firmly, already having someone in mind.

“Dumbledore will know. I can speak to his portrait at Hogwarts.”

-xXx-

“She freaked out, Harry. One second she was blubbering about someone having her wand and being there, and the next she's screeching at me. Out of nowhere!” Ron said, shaking his head as he gestured wildly around him, frowning. 

“I'm sure it wasn't out of nowhere,” Harry said. The two were sitting in one of the many libraries offered by the Ministry of Magic, performing research for their Auror training, though Harry was doing more studying than Ron, who was leaning back on the legs of his chair and biting his thumb. “Don't take this the wrong way mate, but you're not always the greatest at words. Did you say something that could have upset her?”

Ron skewed his face in thought, tapping his chin. Suddenly, he grimaced, his ears turning maroon as he said, “Er...well, I did sort of say that she works too hard, and that she'll get herself sick again.”

Harry finally looked up from the book in front of him, his eyes narrowed. “You what?” he asked incredulously, a tone that suggested he himself wanted to snap at Ron for his words to his girlfriend. But instead, he remained calm, patiently waiting for him to explain.

“It's just...you didn't see her, Harry! She was acting crazy! Running through the halls, constantly looking over her shoulder...and she was so panicky, all the color drained from her face. For nothing!”

“And you said she was alone right? That's strange. Maybe she was working on something that caused her to hallucinate. Unspeakables do some odd things, and she wouldn't be the first. Just last week Thomas was going off about there being so many bats everywhere, and that the Ministry needs to strengthen their security,” he said, shrugging. 

“Then why couldn't she tell me that instead of blowing me off?”

Harry frowned. “You seem to have a fundamental misunderstanding of what Unspeakable means. Look, Hermione's a smart and talented woman. She can take care of herself, and I'm sure that if she had gotten into something that was over her head, she would handle it. Or have her supervisor help her. As for what you said, don't be an idiot. She's struggling enough, and she doesn't need you reminding her every two minutes or treating her like a doll,” he advised, resting his head in his hand as he turned back to the open book.

Ron opened his mouth to speak, his shoulders slumped, but was interrupted when a piece of parchment- charmed to fly around in the shape of an origami crane- came fluttering over to them, settling on the clear space of desk between them. Grabbing hold of it, with Harry craning his neck to see what was written on it, he unfolded the message.

'All Auror trainees report to the head's office at once. Use urgency.'

“I wonder if this has anything to do with the Death Eaters that are still on the loose. I overheard Oveson talking about how they think Greyback and the others are trying to rise up in rebellion. Finish Voldemort's work,” Harry said as he stood, shuffling his books together hastily and then tossing them into his bag. 

Ron grinned, an arrogant one that always managed to make Harry roll his eyes whenever he saw it. “Yeah well, they have another thing coming if they think they can succeed. Soon we'll be Aurors, and they'll have to deal with us. And this time, they have no Voldemort to hide behind.”

-xXx-  
Author's Note: Follow me on Tumblr ( reneehartblog dot tumblr dot com) for sneak peaks, requests and answers to any questions.


	3. Dumbledore's Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dumbledore's portrait offers some advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story will be more lighthearted than my other Tomione multi-chapter. It's a bit of a fun one for me in that regard. Please read and review! And enjoy!

Chapter Three: Dumbledore's Portrait

“I know this may seem strange, Headmistress, but I really need to speak with Dumbledore privately. I hope this isn't an inconvenience to you,” Hermione said as she followed Minerva McGonagall up the spiral staircase to her office. Tom stood behind her, walking far too close to her for her liking. She knew he would not do anything to her, would not risk harming her when he had no way of finding out what was happening without her. Still, the thought did little to make her feel less uneasy, and she took extra care to walk faster to move away from him. 

“Please, dear, call me Minerva. And it is of no inconvenience, though are you sure there is nothing I can do to help you?” the older witch said in her thick Scottish accent. She turned to face Hermione in front of the door, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

Tom, finally caught up with her, was standing so close that his chest pressed against her back, and she flinched at the contact, pulling away from him. He only moved closer, chuckling at her discomfort as she cleared her throat and said, “Really, Headmis- Minerva. I don't want to take up any more of your time than necessary, and I think this is something that Dumbledore is best suited for.” 'Please get into the office,' she thought as Tom began running his fingers lightly down her back, his laugh echoing in her ears as she flinched at the sensation. 

“Very well then, Hermione. Though I expect the next time you come to visit me that we will have a nice chat over some tea and biscuits,” she said, smiling congenially at her as she twisted the doorknob and entered the office.

Hermione practically ran inside, shivering as his hand slipped away from her, and she settled in front of the desk, sighing in relief at Dumbledore's portrait. The old man was reclining leisurely on a large, wingback chair, his hands folded in his lap. He leaned forward, his eyes bright and twinkling as he smiled down at her, raising a hand to stroke his long, silvery beard. “Ah, Miss Granger! How good it is to see you! Everything is well I hope?” he asked. The door clicked as McGonagall left them alone, having a meeting to attend to, and she glanced around the room to where Tom wandered off, his hands behind his back as he looked at the portraits hanging on the walls. So not even Dumbledore- or any of the other former Headmasters- could see Tom. It was becoming entirely clear that she was the only one who could.

“Thing's...could be better, Headmaster,” she admitted, drawing her gaze away from the young Dark Lord. 

His eyes seemed to darken at that, frowning. “Why, my dear? What happened?”

“It's sort of a long story, sir. And I'm not entirely sure about any of it still,” she said, moving to stand in front of the desk, leaning against it. Suddenly Tom was at her side, moving with startling stealth. He looked up at the portrait with a wide self-satisfied grin, triumphant. The look made her stomach roil, knowing that he was clearly delighting in the fact that he had at least taken down the great Albus Dumbledore. That, in his mind, he believed this to mean he was a superior wizard.

Looking away from the terrible grin, she pulled her bag in front of her and ruffled through it, muttering as she did. “I was given this task, by my supervisor. I know I shouldn't mention it to anyone, being an Unspeakable, but I don't know what to do and I think that this may be outside Adesa's expertise.” Pulling the diary out from her bag, she extended it forward to allow him to see what she was holding.

His brows rose in surprise, pursing his lips. “Am I to assume that you were tasked with studying Tom Riddle's horcruxes then? I did not think that they would allow such an opportunity to pass them by,” he said, his voice lowering to a more serious tone. “Have you run into a problem? You should not be in any danger, all the horcruxes have been destroyed.” 

“That's what I thought,” she said, nervously glancing in Tom's direction. “But I used a potion on it...and...I don't know how to say this, but Tom Riddle is standing beside me, sir.” 

The blue eyes, widened now, looked to her side, lingering in place as though he might have seen him after all, but then returned to Hermione, narrowed in thought. “I'm afraid I do not see anyone there, Miss Granger. Are you certain of this?”

Tom scoffed noisily, but she ignored him, stepping forward. “I am certain. For some reason, no one but myself can hear or see him. But I assure you, he's there.” Reaching up to her neck, her fingers brushing her hair away, she tilted her chin, revealing light bruise marks running up and down her throat. “I even have bruises from where he tried to choke me this afternoon. He can touch me, it seems, but no one else, and he can touch things but not move or lift them.” 

Dumbledore leaned back in the painted chair, his fingers steepled before him as he rose them to his lips in contemplation. He hummed softly, looking at Hermione and around her as though he were looking for Tom Riddle to suddenly materialize before him. When he did not, he turned his attention back to her and said, “Well, that does seem like quite a predicament. May I ask what potion you used?”

She was rummaging through her bag again, pulling out the book and flipping to the marked page. Clearing her throat, she began to read the entire section aloud. Dumbledore listened intently, nodding his head occasionally. When she finally finished with it, she looked up at him, closing the book and pressing it flat against her lap. “Adesa said that the soul remains trapped within the horcrux, even after it is destroyed. Is it possible that I...let his soul get out? Or...partly?” she asked, glancing at Riddle once more. His lips were in a tightly pinched together, his jaw clenching as she spoke. 

“I don't think so, Miss Granger. I think what you have done is...far more interesting, and far more difficult to get rid of than his soul. If that were the case, you should have been able to be done with him by destroying the horcrux once more, which I assume you tried?” She nodded, ignoring the disgruntled sound coming from her side. He clearly did not appreciate being spoken of in such a manner, as if he was something to simply get rid of. A problem to be dealt with, an infestation to be disposed of, instead of being respected for the powerful wizard he was. But how powerful was he really, when he could not perform magic? 

“If not that, then what? I just...don't understand,” she said in slight exasperation. 

Dumbledore sighed then, smiling at her in what she thought was a reassuring smile, though not an entirely convincing one. “You wrote in his diary, and though it no longer had any magic of its own, it was still able to latch onto yours, if only a slight connection. And when you administered the potion to it...Hermione, I believe you may have bound his soul to your own.”

She knitted her brows at him, turning to face Tom when he made a sound that was a cross between a sputter of disgust and a laugh. She pursed her lips together as she snapped, “What? What's so funny about that?”

He looked at her, his eyes dark as he made a menacing grin. “It's not funny. It's deplorable. What is funny is the fact that you clearly have no idea what soul binding is. Some bookworm you are. Though I suppose I can only expect so much from a mudblood,” he said in a mocking tone of pity, his lips raising into a snarl when her eyes hardened at him, her knuckles turning white.

She rose her chin though, deciding not to give him the benefit of seeing her respond to that vicious word. “I'm sorry if I haven't spent the entirety of my existence studying dark magic like yourself. Please, let me in on your well of knowledge,” she hissed, aware that Dumbledore's portrait was fixing her with an intrigued look as she spook to what appeared to be air. 

He chuckled. “It's not really dark magic. At least, it wasn't at first. In fact it was quite common among Pureblood families to bind their souls to their...significant others. Though they were never so incompetent as to do it by accident,” he answered, and she grimaced, turning her attention back to Dumbledore, begging for him to explain.

“Typically done through blood magic, soul binding was a ritual performed- typically- by betrothed Purebloods. However, it has long since been considered outdated, as it's rather macabre and esoteric. To bound your soul to another was to permanently tie yourself to their magic and their life. It had some benefits, but the cons outweighed the pros and it has not been practiced for hundreds of years after it fell out of popularity,” he explained, shrugging his shoulders. His eyes twinkled then as he straightened in his chair, looking at them with keen interest. “But- seeing as how Mr. Riddle does not have a body of his own, I can't say for certain how much you will experience.” 

She shook her head, growing impatient. For once, she just wanted a straight answer from him. “But what does that mean for us?” she asked, gesturing between herself and Riddle before realizing how silly that was. He did not see Riddle, after all. “Is that why only I can see and hear him? And how do I get him to go away?”

Dumbledore frowned, shaking his head. “This is not something I have great knowledge in, I'm afraid. But what I can tell you- and I say this more for Mr. Riddle as it appears he has already tried to kill you- is that if you are to die, Hermione, than so will Tom, and he will lose all connection to this world,” he said, dipping his head forward to peer at them from over the top of his half moon glasses. “That was one of the cons, you see. That if one who was soul bound died, they would take the other with them. Tom cannot die on his own, as he has no body to destroy, but he will perish just as well if you do.”

Hermione heard what sounded like a displeased growl from Tom's throat as she reached out and clasped her fingers over her neck, sighing in relief somewhat. Riddle would not harm her, not so long as he stood to lose his own life in the process. It was a reassurance of some sort, though not necessarily a great one. 

“Ask him if it can be reversed,” Tom requested through his teeth, fixing her with a hard and terrifying glare. She did so, parroting the words back to Dumbledore.

He pinched his lips. “I do not know. But I can give you the name of a friend of mine, one who studied this extensively. If anyone can help you, she can, though you may have to travel far for her assistance- she moves around quite frequently, and it may take some time for you to establish correspondence. For that, I am sorry,” he said to Hermione, the unspoken words left between them. Sorry that until that time, Tom Riddle would be at her side, her own personal specter to haunt her. “I can also recommend some books that may be of assistance to you. Until then, I recommend you ask your supervisor to put your current research on hold, in favor of a new one.”

She swallowed, rubbing her eyes at that. “It's something. Hopefully we will have our answers soon,” she said, taking a quill and parchment to write down the information Dumbledore offered to her, of the books to read and the people to speak to. After it was all neatly scrawled on the paper, she folded it and placed it securely within her inner robe pocket, patting it down. She then gathered her belongings, tossing them into her bag as she straightened up. “Thank you for your help, Professor. We should get going to the library I suppose,” she started moving around the desk.

But she came to a halt when Dumbledore spoke once more, his voice lower and more grave than she had ever heard it. “Be forewarned, Miss Granger. That if there is a way to sever the soul binding, that would still not entirely rid his soul from you, or this earth. It would not lock his soul back within the diary. You may come up with some other answers on your research, and I hope you do, but don't be surprised if in order to expel him for good you'll have to bring him back to a corporeal form. Surely, I don't need to tell you that a potion or spell of that nature will be inherently dark.”

She slowly turned back to face him, her brows knitted. Riddle chuckled beside her, a smug smile pulling on his lips as he muttered, “This just got very interesting.”

She frowned, shaking her head. “But how would that actually expel him? That seems to me like the exact opposite of what I want to do.”

Dumbledore sighed, his eyes looking weary as he spoke. “It won't. You'll have to kill him afterwards, before he gets the chance to kill you.”

-xXx-

By the time Hermione returned to her office from the library, it was well into the evening. The department was thankfully quiet and empty, and she sighed as she settled the mountain of books down on her desk. “I don't think I've ever had to read so much in my entire life,” she said, for once feeling overwhelmed by the work before her. The tomes themselves either very new or very old and falling apart, barely tethered together by the leather binding. She had grabbed essentially everything she could find that had any mention of horcruxes, soul binding and blood magic. A grand total of fifty-seven books, each at over four hundred pages. There wasn't enough coffee or tea in the world for this level of research. 

Reaching into her bag- the expandable charm in place- she began pulling out the other books that would not fit in her hands, shrunken down in size and weight to make them tolerable to carry. She settled them all within a drawer, locking it closed. She would read those ones later, she thought, settling down in her chair as she pulled out a quill and parchment. “Once I finish this letter, I'll send it to Dumbledore's friend through the owlery. Hopefully we'll hear back soon,” she spoke tersely, sitting straighter in her chair as Tom moved closer, running his hand over the surface of her desk. “Dumbledore was woefully unhelpful,” she mumbled under her breath, exhaustion heavy in her voice as she rubbed an eye with the heel of her palm.

Tom smirked, stopping when he stood just behind and leaning forward so that one hand was placed on either side of her, his arms acting as a cage. Her quill stilled for a moment as she swallowed nervously, sitting straighter to pull away from him somewhat. “I don't know about that. I found his last piece of advice particularly helpful. I've been nothing more than a memory for so long, and this state of being...it's such a tease. I'd like to have a proper body,” he said silkily, his lips settling just at Hermione's ear, and she shivered from the feeling of his hot breath on her skin. “And you should know Hermione, that I don't intend to lose it so easily.” 

He could hear her own breathing hitch in her throat, her jaw clicking as the muscles clenched tightly. “I'm sure there will be other means of locking you back into the diary. Dumbledore is merely unaware of them, but with proper research I'm certain I will find a way more convenient for myself,” she said, her voice clipped and professional sounding as though she were simply discussing a matter with a client. “And even if that is the only option we have, I should point out that you will be at a disadvantage. You haven't got a wand. It was destroyed after the war, along with your body.”

Suddenly his fingers latched onto her shoulders, his nails digging deeply into her skin and she gasped out in pain, the quill slipping from her hands. “Do not compare me to him,” he hissed spitefully, his words venomous as the grip on her grew tighter, one hand moving to cup under her chin. He pulled her head back, her neck bending painfully over so that she was forced to look up at him, her eyes widening as they gazed into his own. “He was a failure, a fool who could not so much as kill a pathetic baby, let alone the useless boy he grew up to be. Do not consider him and I as one in the same, as I assure you, I would not fail where he did.” 

As far as Tom was concerned, Voldemort was nothing more than a sliver of himself, the rogue piece of his soul left to wander the earth after he greedily created far too many horcruxes. It was his greatest mistake, tearing his soul asunder to the point of being barely a man, hardly a wizard. A monster who could not think properly, consumed by what few emotions he managed to retain, by what little reasoning could be expected of someone with so little left of them. He hadn't considered- had foolishly overlooked it- that when Slughorn said each horcrux would split his soul in half, that he would only continue to whittle it down with each one. That in the end, he had been left with one percent of himself. That was hardly enough for Voldemort and Tom Riddle to be the same, and surely that had been the cause of his failing. What effect could that have had on his magic? What could one really achieve when they were only one percent of what they had started as? 

Being the remainder of the first horcrux he had created, he himself was only half of what he was. He would be reborn again, he was sure of it, and he would use his soul more wisely.

Hermione was pulling from him now, trying to move away from his grip, and stiffly, he allowed her to, stepping back. He needed Hermione to be alive- she was the thread tenuously tying him to this world- and he would not be so foolish as to be his own undoing. Not again. It would only make the moment he could kill her, when he was truly alive and flesh and bone, that much sweeter, and he would bask in the moment. 

She stood from the chair so quickly that the front legs of it hovered in the air for seconds before it fell over, tossed to the floor. She scribbled on the parchment quickly, the tip of it aggressively scratching on it before she brought it to her chest, the letter finished. “I'm going to mail this now. Until I receive a response, I'll read what I can. However, you should know, that is Friday evening, and I do not work the weekends. Unfortunately for you, that means you will have to stay here until I return,” she said dismissively, pulling out the battered diary from her bag and walking towards the glass case containing the other horcruxes. “You don't have enough of your own magic to stray away from this, especially once I secure the wards on it.” 

He pursed his lips, reaching a hand out to grab hold of her wrist, stopping her from placing the diary within. “Take it with you,” he commanded, not wanting to waste two days alone in her office, where he could not even so much as a read a book. “I can help.” He tried to sound warmer, kinder to her, panic building in his chest like a tight knot. He had hated the limitations of the diary when that Weasley girl had used it, when he had started to leech off of her soul. He could not influence beyond its field of magic, was held back as it pulled to him and rooted him in place. He did not want to be so limited again, to be trapped within a room. He had spent sixty years in such a manner, he did not intend to send a second more like that now that he had escaped, if only partially.

But she shook her head, a determined look hardening her features. “No,” she answered, shoving his hand away and dropping the book unceremoniously within, closing the lid over it. “Have a wonderful weekend, Riddle.”

And with that, she left the room, locking and warding the door behind her as a dangerous look settled in his dark blue eyes. Oh yes, he simply couldn't wait until he was truly alive once more, and would make her beg for forgiveness and mercy before he would kill and discard, her usefulness having met its end.

-xXx-

Hermione sighed softly as she turned over in her sleep, burying her face into the plush pillows. She had slept soundlessly, her heavy lids eager to settle in when she finally arrived at her flat late into the evening. The day had been exhausting, the sort of exhaustion that was felt in your bones and in your muscles, creating an ache that could not be ignored. Not since her time hunting horcruxes had she felt so physically defeated, tired and hungry and cold. How appropriate then, that it was once again Tom Riddle and his infernal horcruxes that wore her down so. 

By the time she had mailed the letter and apparated home, Ron was already asleep, the covers twisted to his own side of the bed, his fists tightly clutching the silken duvet. He was still angry with her, she knew, and a small spark went off in her own chest at the sight of him, the remembrance of his words. A hand fell to her stomach, smoothing over the fabric of her nightgown before she settled in bed, recalling that she had once been told to never go to bed angry. But she was also tired, and surely that trumped all other emotions, and perhaps a good lie in was all she needed to feel renewed and ready to tackle the insurmountable task before her.

The task of bringing down Tom Riddle.

And so she slept, not giving any more thought to the diary, to Dumbledore's words of warning, or the handsome young wizard with cold, distant eyes. 

When she awoke, it was too an empty bed. Unusual, as she was normally awake before Ron, prodding at him to get up as her frustrations grew with his refusal. Molly Weasley was a saint, she often thought in the mornings. 

She stretched languidly, rolling over so that she was on her back and in the middle of the bed, enjoying the luxury of the large, queen sized mattress all to herself.

She let her hands drop onto her pillows, above her head, and she sighed contentedly. It was a new day, and she could feel the heat of the sun as it reached in through the window, basking her in warmth. A new, lovely Saturday morning, and she would put her mind at rest, her heart at ease, and try to enjoy it. She would apologize to Ron, perhaps try to convince him to go out for breakfast at a local bakery. Or brunch, as the light that filtered through her thin eyelids told her that breakfast time had long since passed. 

'A walk in the park to clear my head, maybe a visit to Harry and Ginny's,' she thought, humming as she wriggled her toes. Anything to distract her from the events of the previous day, a reprieve before she returned to work on Monday. 'Did Molly invite us to dinner today, or tomorrow?'

She had a calendar in the kitchen, marked with any and all important and pertinent dates. That would answer her question. She opened her eyes, blinking up at the ceiling and the looming face of one Tom Riddle, his lips twisted into a parody of a smile, scorn and rage but self-satisfaction all at once marring his features. Like a cheshire, his smile widened.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” he sneered from above her, grimacing when she let out a piercing scream.


	4. Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Riddle coerces Hermione into making him a priority, and plans his rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has supported this story by leaving kudos or comments. It is very much appreciated.

Hermione lurched from her bed with the sort of practiced ease that came with being a veteran of a deadly war, her wand gripped tightly in her hand as she jabbed it out in front of her. Before she could truly recognize what she was doing, instinct falling in place faster than logic, she sent several stunning hexes in Tom's direction- all of which passed right through and collided into the wall. Picture frames fell from their hangings at the impact, falling to the floor with a crash as the glass shattered and spilled over the area, books tumbling from the nearby shelf. Scorch marks singed on the cream colored walls from the sight of the spell, and Tom considered it for a moment before turning to her with a poorly concealed look of amusement, brows raised.

“That will surely show it.”

Her mouth gaped open, the muscles in her eyes twitching in annoyance. She began to speak, the start of a word dying in her throat as the door to the room slammed open with such force it bounce against the wall and came swinging back, Ron running in with wide eyes and his own wand held before him. He frantically looked around the room, making sure it was safe before coming to Hermione's side, large hands clasping on her shoulders. “Hermione, are you alright? What happened? What was all that noise for?” Before she could answer, he sighed in relief, pulling her into an oppressive hug.

“I'm fine, Ronald,” she muffled to his chest, trying to wiggle her way out of his tight grasp. “I can't breathe.”

He released her, smiling bashfully in apology, one hand still wrapped around her in comfort. “What happened? Why did you scream?”

Her eyes flicked over to Tom, who stood with his arms crossed and a stoic, near bored expression on his face. “I...had a nightmare. I guess I overreacted,” she finally said, nodding her head in the direction of the burnt wall. Ron followed her gaze, laughing.

“Bloody scared me half to death, you did. Glad you're alright,” he said, walking across the room to begin righting the mess. She watched as he came within a foot of the apparition of Tom Riddle, entirely unaware to the presence of the Dark Lord, as he bent down to magic the frames together again. 

“A Weasley?” he asked to no one in particular, looking around the room and at the rumpled comforter of the bed. His gaze finally fell on her, dark blue eyes flicking down and then dragging back up in an appraising manner. She met him with a glower, biting her lips on the retort she could not say, knowing Ron would surely think she'd gone mad. But all anger dissipated when Tom's bemused expression returned, lips skewing into a crooked smirk. “A little under dressed for company, aren't you?”

Her cheeks rouged as she remembered that she was still dressed in her nightshirt. There was nothing terribly inappropriate about it- it was hardly lingerie- but the dark navy fabric was sheer enough to hint over the shadows of her curves, the hem not even falling to her mid thigh. She wore no bra, and the fabric clinging around her bare breast suddenly felt too constricting, too revealing to the contours. Her scowl becoming a proper glare, she summoned her bathrobe and wrapped it around herself, cinching the belt tightly at the waist. 

By the time she was satisfied with her appearance, Ron rose from his crouched position, everything whole and in its rightful spot once more. “I get them still, too, you know,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Nightmares, I mean.”

“Oh...sorry,” was all she said, torn between wanting to comfort him and not wanting Tom to be privy to something so intimate and person. 'What the bloody hell is he doing here anyway?' Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she asked, “Would you mind getting me some tea please, Ronald?”

If he thought it was unusual for her to request it of him, he didn't say anything, only nodding at her eagerly. “Right. I'll get that. Don't forget, we were supposed to meet Harry and Ginny for lunch today,” he said. She tried to ignore the way Tom seemed to perk up at that, his head inclining ever so slightly in interest. Ron gave her a peck on the lips before he disappeared, closing the door behind him.

“I'm excited. It has been entirely too long since I've seen those two,” Tom said with a wry grin, one that made her stomach feel heavy with dread. Casting some quick silencing wards over the room, she reared on him, straightening her spine and shoulders in an attempt to match his towering height, chin raised defiantly.

“You will not be seeing anyone. You will be returning to the Ministry,” she commanded.

Eyes glowed in mirth, but not a joyous kind. It was cruel, condescending, a deep chuckle coming from low in the base of his throat. “How adorable. Like a kitten.”

She seethed at his taunting words, honey colored eyes narrowing. “You'll do well not to patronize me. Though I suppose you tend to make a habit of underestimating your opponents, a one year old being the greatest testament to that indiscretion of yours,” she hissed, delighting in the way the smile fell from his face, eyes hardening as his nostrils- still very human- flared.

“And you'll do well to watch your tongue, mudblood,” he bit back, his voice hitting that octave that seemed to command her hair to stand on end. Command her knees to buckle. 

Still keeping her chin raised high, she asked, “How did you get here anyway? I warded the diary and my office.”

His features softened only slightly, his shoulders rolling in a small shrug. “It would appear the magic of this soul bond is stronger than your wards.”

She let out a frustrated growl, pinching the bridge of her nose as she exhaled long and slow. Of course. So he could follow only one of two paths. The diary at the end one path, and she at the other. She had worried that that may have been an aspect of the ancient ritual, but had hoped that her wards would still be strong enough to lock him within his vessel. She would have to study them some more, try to tailor them to be stronger then. 

“Well, go back,” she said through gritted teeth.

“And let you toil away the weekend, not a care in the world as I stare at the walls of your mess of an office? No,” he answered firmly. “I spent far too long trapped in a prison, with nothing to occupy myself with but my thoughts, I will not do so willingly so you can consort with your friends. The only way I will return is with the condition that you return as well and keep working on how to fix-” he gestured broadly to himself, then swiping his hand in her direction as his lips skewed in disgust, “this.”

“I think we may have more than a weekend of work ahead of us, and I don't plan to keep my life on hold for you,” she hissed, swallowing hard, the unspoken words lingering on her lips. 'I've already lost so much of my life to you.'

He moved with impressive speed, fingers curling around her chin as he held it in his grasp, pulling it sharply so she was forced to look at him. “You want to bemoan having your life put on hold? Poor, little Mudblood,” he spat, words like acid as she struggled to remove from his hold, his other hand gripping tightly on her waist to hold her in place. “You have no idea what it means to truly have your life put on hold. To spend what very well seemed like eternity in a box. Forgive me for not being sympathetic that you will have to cancel your lunch plans.”

“And forgive me for not being sympathetic to your plight,” she countered, pressing a palm against his chest and giving him a shove. He loosened his grip, stepping back and adjusting the wrinkles in his uniform, the only indication to his barely tethered rage being the clenched muscles in his jaw. “You expect me to feel bad because you made a horcrux after killing an innocent girl? Poor, little Slytherin,” she jeered.

“I didn't kill her,” was all he said in his defense. “I merely summoned the creature that did. How was I to know she was in there, bawling in the stall?”

Hermione said nothing, lips pinched. He hardly seemed contrite in the matter, treating the murder done by his hand- indirect though it may be- as if it had been a mere indiscretion. As if he had spilled some wine on white linen and really, it wasn't his glass so it wasn't his fault.

The door to the bedroom opened, and Ron came through with a floating tea tray, the wooden slab trembling somewhat in his less than careful hand as it settled on the surface of a bedside table. There was a plate of biscuits on it as well, a chocolate paste spread thinly over them. A bowl of juicy red raspberries was placed beside it, and Ron grinned sheepishly, his ears turning pink. “I...uh...brought you something to eat. For yesterday,” he mumbled, raising a hand and rubbing it over the back of his head. “I said some...well...I was a bit of a prat. So...”

She smiled, forgetting about Tom's presence for a moment as she stood on the balls of her feet to place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” she said, sitting in bed and curling her legs beneath her, plucking a berry from the white porcelain dish and bringing it to her lips.

He sat beside her, and they spent an hour in bed with the treats between them, talking about nothing in particular. Conversation faltered often, trailing off as Hermione was entirely too distracted by Riddle. He had sat himself upon the armchair tucked in the corner, beside a bookshelf, and she had noticed with interest that the cushion did not depress under his weight. As if he wasn't there. 

She giggled inappropriately, sputtering into her tea cup as she wondered what would happen if Ron were to try to sit there. Would he go right through Riddle, to sit on the cushions, or would he magically float in the air, on the Slytherin's lap? Despite the absurdity of it all, she struggled to conceal her laughter as she imagined the look of mortification that would mar the entirely too handsome face. Ron fixed her with a worried look, rubbing her back comfortingly as she waved him off. 

“Have you gone mad?” Riddle questioned, and she fought against looking at him as he spoke. Ron was attempting to have a wonderful morning with her, and it wouldn't do if she made herself look like a nutter, glaring at seemingly empty corners. “Hurry up, I haven't much patience left and would like to return to the office,” he added, his voice sounding somewhat strained despite the deepness of it, the harshness lacing his words.

'Not much bite to your bark, eh?' she thought, her eyes flicking to him for only a moment before returning to Ron as he talked about his Auror training, animatedly waving his arms around. It was a torture worse than death, and perhaps even imprisonment as a horcrux for the young Dark Lord. He had no power in the situation, no upper hand. He was forced to rely solely on her- a mudblood- to do as he wanted with nothing to bolster himself with. He could not kill her, for fear of cutting his only tie to this world. And he could not torture her, as no wand would respond to the dormant magic of something less than tangible. 

The emotional part of her was indignant to be tied to such a monster, her nerves frayed and sizzling with rage at the very thought that she was in any sort of way bound to the man. To Tom Riddle. It was almost poetic in its cruelty, though for who the punishment was intended for she did not know. 

Yet her analytical side, her arguably more dominant side, was fascinated by the unprecedented bond she had forged. And though she was adamant about not giving into Riddle's whims- if for no other purpose than to indulge her Gryffindor stubbornness- she would be lying if she said that running to the library to study it further didn't sound appealing. If it were anyone else, ideally someone with a more agreeable disposition, she probably would have made his ears bleed with her incessant questions, asking them faster than could be answered and with a greed to them that would make even the most covetous of sinners cringe. 

She would have stayed awake into the early hours of the morning, sleeping only for a few hours before returning to her ink smeared notes to learn more. She would consume the knowledge like a carnivore digging into tender and pink flesh, tearing into it like it was what gave her strength.

But whenever she looked to Riddle, a question on her lips and her brows knitted in intrigue, she would remember who he was. Who he would be. And she would want to scream, scream so loudly the walls shook and it sounded like waves crashing down on her to her own ears. 

No, Tom Riddle seemed to excel at shutting down any reasonable thought.

-xXx-

Hermione did not return to her office.

And neither did Tom.

Which is a quick summation of how she found herself in the very odd predicament of sitting at a table with Harry and Ginny opposite her and Ron, struggling to look interested as her eyes wandered over to Riddle and where he sat, perched on the stone wall enclosing them. It was an outdoor dining area, the day being too lovely and unusually warm for an October afternoon to waste away inside the cafe. The streets of Hogsmeade were bustling- as they often were on a Saturday- and a parade of colors blurred together as emerald and magenta robes swayed in the light breeze, a chorus of laughter on the wind as students excitedly running to Zonko's. 

They had arrived late, Hermione stalling in her morning ablutions, hesitant to take a shower or to even change until Riddle had said that he had no intentions or interest in peering at a filthy mudblood. Still, it was perhaps the fastest shower she had taken, wanting to leave no window of opportunity. When they had finally arrived at the eatery, Ginny and Harry were already seated, waving them over with large matching grins.

“It's unfair that you lot were pardoned of completing your final year, but I have to finish it. I fought in the war just like you did!” Ginny bemoaned playfully, picking at a loose thread in her maroon jumper, the golden G knitted into it.

“Sorry, Gin,” Ron teased. “Special perk of being part of the Golden Trio.”

Hermione stiffened as she heard Riddle scoff from beside her, a surprisingly inelegant noise coming from the wizard. “Is that what they call you? The Golden Trio? How cloyingly pandering,” he said. She bit on the inside of her cheeks, the soft flesh already swollen and tender as she tasted dirty pennies in her mouth. 

“That and admission into the Auror program,” Harry added, unaware of the young Dark Lord, running a hand through his untidy black hair. “And Hermione becoming an Unspeakable. How is that working out, by the way? I know you can't tell us exactly what you've been up to, but is it as stimulating as you had hoped?”

Now it was Hermione's turn to scoff, the sound turning into a snort as she lifted her bottle of butterbeer to her lips. “Oh, it's stimulating something alright,” she said, her voice bitter as it whistled against the neck of the bottle. She was met with curious looks, Ginny's eyebrows practically disappearing into her hairline. She sighed, placing the bottle down so it clinked against the glass tabletop. “Fine. Couldn't be better.”

She knew she sounded anything but convincing, but it hadn't mattered as Ron shrugged and said, “Well, our training is going great, isn't it Harry? We might be officials Aurors before you know it, what with all the Death Eaters they've still got running about. Bloody delusional, they are, thinking that there's still a chance in Hell they'll finish Voldemort's work. But the Ministry is desperate to get them all caught and in Azkaban. Bad PR, I suppose.”

Her eyes flicked from Ron to Riddle, who rose in interest at that, one side of his mouth curving into a crooked smile, a peek of pearly white teeth visible behind the full lips. “How very, very interesting,” he said, looking at Hermione with a look that made her shrink back in her chair, a hungry glint to his eyes as he strode around the table. He finally came to a stop behind Harry, his hand curling to wrap around the back of the chair, the wizard entirely ignorant to his presence. “Tell me, Hermione, how well do you think the Boy Who Lived will fair against the Dark Lord and his army a third time? Luck can only get a incompetent wizard so far.”

She cleared her throat, turning her gaze to her lap. “Let's not discuss work,” she said, her voice sounding strained even to herself. Her eyes were squinted against the growing pressure behind them, the beginning ache of a migraine settling into her skull as her stomach contorted onto itself. She had already been dealt enough to handle, she certainly didn't need to curtail Tom Riddle from finding the army that so desperately sought his guiding and powerful hand. The less he knew about the current events following the war, the better.

Harry eyed her curiously from behind his wire rimmed glasses- honestly, didn't he plan to get a new pair at all now that he had his own funds?- and shrugged. “Alright, then. Are you okay, Hermione?”

“Just feeling a little under the weather,” she admitted, raising her eyes once more. But her gaze rose beyond where Harry sat and to Riddle, a wolfish grin in place. Like a cat who got the cream. 

“Surely,” Riddle began, his words mingling over Harry's, deeper and more commanding. “They'll be delighted to know that their Lord isn't gone. Not truly. They'll be positively thrilled when I return to them.”

She had to physically bite her lip so as to not speak, the words dying in her throat. 'Not if I can kill you first,' she thought, wishing that there was a way for her threat to transcend spoken words so he could hear her. 

“Of course, dealing with you,” he added, his gaze turning from Harry to Ginny a cruel facsimile of a fond smile settled on his handsome face, “will be the first task I give to them. One third of the Golden Trio. What a wonderful celebration.” His hand extended, reaching over to lay the ghost of a palm on Ginny's freckled cheek. She didn't so much as flinch when he cupped her face, thumb settling under her chin. 

“I'm sure she would love to hear all about your project with the Ministry, wouldn't she, Hermione? Perhaps you could even interview her. Not too many accounts exist of those who fed their soul to a horcrux,” he teased.

It wasn't until she was already standing, the linen napkin she had placed over her lap fluttering to the ground, and all eyes were on her that she realized she had abruptly jumped from her chair. Riddle's hand had fallen to his side, a satisfied smirk in place as Ron twisted to look at her. “Hermione? What's going on?” he asked.

She swallowed, meeting his concerned eyes as her lips parted and a sound left them. A warm blush crept up her neck, suddenly embarrassed of the very public scene she had made. “I...” she started, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“We were asking you if you needed us to get you anything?” Ginny asked, standing from her own seat to come around the table, a hand settling on her shoulder. “You look as if you've seen a ghost. What's wrong?”

She shook the hand from her shoulder, stepping away from the table and grabbing her beaded bag from where it hung over the back of her chair. “I think I need to stop and see a mediwitch. I'm feeling very unwell, I'm sorry, but...” she trailed off, biting her lip. 

“I'll go with you,” Ron said, moving to grab his cloak.

“That won't be necessary,” she began hastily. “Enjoy your lunch.”

And she turned on her foot, exiting the dining area before anyone could catch up to her. She stomped off in the direction of the apparition point, a sour expression on place as she raised a hand and pressed it to her temple. Her skull felt as if it was being drilled open, a white light filling her vision.

When she reached her destination, she placed her forehead against the cool and forgiving stone of the nearby building, palms pressed flat against the textured surface. She felt someone come to stand beside her, a nothing sort of presence that she knew instantly to be the figment of Tom Riddle, and if she opened her eyes a little she could see the tops of his shiny black shoes. 

“I'm going to the apothecary,” she said through pants, her teeth gritted against the pain. “You will be quiet, and let me complete my transaction uninterrupted. And then we will return to my office, and discuss the terms of our...partnership.”

He said nothing, but his shoes disappeared from her sight and she thought she heard the ruffle of his robes as he leaned against the wall beside her, waiting for her headache to abate. “You don't need side-along, right?” she asked, recalling with irritation how he had arrived behind her in Hogsmeade despite her want.

“No. When you leave, it's like a portkey. I have no choice but to go with you,” he responded, and she felt the slightest bit of joy at the frustration evident in his voice. He did not like that he was forced to follow after her, having no volition of himself. It was a small triumph, but it warmed her all the same.

Without any warning, she disappeared with a POP!

Riddle followed after her, unbidden.

-xXx-

He did not listen to her, though he did not actively try to distract her when she purchased her potions from the elderly wizard running the till. It wasn't a matter of keeping conversation with the stubborn witch, simply a matter of not following her orders. It was bad enough he was as limited as he was, forced to follow her around like a poor, pathetic puppy. It was indignant, and honestly if not for his insistence on returning to his corporeal form as soon as possible, he would have been content to spend the weekend away from her, maintaining what dignity he could. But he was capable of nothing, not even able to pick a book from the shelf to read from. He was left to wander around the small, disorganized office (did it really have to be such a mess? No wonder she made such a grievous mistake) and it did not take long before he was filled with anxious energy.

Like a fissure broke within him, his nerves quivering and blood thrumming through his veins so forcefully he could feel it with each pulse of his heart. It was overwhelming, to have gone from the feeling of absolutely nothing when he was trapped within the diary, not even alive enough to host him properly after Potter destroyed it, to feeling everything at once. It was almost painful, the sensation coming at him all at once.

He was angry at that witch for leaving him to his own devices, angry that he even relied on her in the first place. He was angry that he had failed- so miserably- against a wizard who seemed incapable of cursing himself out of a wet paper bag. He was electric with rage, and he wanted to destroy something. Anyone of the trinkets in her office would do really.

But he couldn't. He was useless, teased with the promise of life and the world behind the battered pages of that damned book only for it all to be held outside his grasp. The only one he could physically harm was Granger, and he needed her.

The thought alone was enough to make his rage double in its intensity, a heat furling and unfurling like a clenched fist in his rib cage. And though he positively loathed the idea of trailing after her, he did so, loathing even more the idea of spending a minute longer in this mockery of a body. 

He would not admit how pleasant it had felt to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, or the slight chill of a breeze as it brushed through him, undeterred by the obstacle he otherwise would be. He would not admit how his mouth twitched as Hermione ate the chocolate coated biscuits and raspberries with that clueless Weasley, not nearly savoring it enough. What he wouldn't give to taste the tartness of the berry, the saccharine sweetness of chocolate. He would not admit the way he had felt almost at ease by the looming figure of the castle as it sat a top the hill above Hogsmeade, the nostalgia it offered him embarrassing in its sentimentality. 

It was so much more than he had since the day he stupidly locked himself within the pages of the diary, and yet not nearly enough. 

He would cooperate with Hermione. Long enough to succeed in their task until he could return to a proper form once more. He might not be entirely used to having a proper body, but he was still confident enough that he would be able to overpower her. It wouldn't be much for him to incapacitate her, procuring her wand for his own use until a more suitable one could be found. He would call to his followers, what ones remained, of course, and he would move forward.

He was adaptable, and he had the luxury of knowing what had failed. He would not follow in the self-fulfilling steps of that monstrosity parading around as Lord Voldemort. He was more whole, retained more of the humanity that he had once detested that he now knew was vital to his sanity, to his ability to rule and claim objectively. 

As for what he would do to repay Granger for her service to returning him to power? 

He would try not to prolong her death more than necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me at tumblr (reneehartblog) to get answers to questions, sneak peeks to stories and chapters, and Harry Potter posts.


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